


crash and burn

by distracted_dragon



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Depictions of depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Seeking Help, Sibling Bonding, it looks kind of canon if you stand a few feet away and maybe cover your eyes, mental health, the batfamily gets therapy, vigilantes dealing with their emotional issues? it's more likely than you think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26022616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distracted_dragon/pseuds/distracted_dragon
Summary: Dick Grayson-Wayne is a talented vigilante. He was trained by Batman himself and he's faced down villains ranging from Killer Croc to the Joker. However, what can he do when he's fighting against his own brain?Or: Dick gets help.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 139





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, you need to write Dick struggling and getting comfort. 
> 
> For those of you who follow [birds fly in every direction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24358207/chapters/58740370), this fic is not canon in the birds fly universe. 
> 
> **CWs:** mild blood, mentions of needles/stitching up a wound, and depictions of depression

Dick Grayson-Wayne is many things. An Olympic-level gymnast, for one, and the adopted son of the richest man in Gotham. He’s a fully-fledged vigilante in his own right and a rising star in the caped community. The teams he manages all perform outstandingly on missions.

Given Dick’s success as a vigilante, one might assume that his personal life is similarly prosperous.

That assumption, of course, would be wrong.

* * *

Dick closes his eyes as Tim drones on, his voice turned tinny by the phone’s speakers. His commitment to the details of this mission is nothing short of impressive, but Dick is pretty sure that his brain is about to start leaking out of his ears if he tries to process any more of this conversation.

Thankfully, his microwave beeps right as Tim asks, “So, any questions?”

“Nope,” Dick says, picking his way over the empty cardboard box sitting in the middle of the hallway so he can step into the kitchen. “Oh, I think I heard someone outside my apartment. I’ll text you any questions if I have them, okay?”

The lie tastes bitter on his tongue, but Tim doesn’t seem to notice. “All right,” Tim replies. “Let me know how the investigation goes. You can check out the warehouse tonight, right?”

Nodding absently, Dick opens the microwave. “Yep. I’ll talk to you later tonight. Gotta go, bye!” With that, he hangs up and slides his phone into his pocket.

Dick lets out a breath, shoulders slumping. He grabs the tray of steaming frozen pasta from the microwave and opens the cutlery drawer with his other hand. There’s one absurdly long spoon that looks like it was designed for stirring coffee and one butter knife. The rest of his dirty, unwashed utensils sit in the sink. Dick selects the absurdly long spoon and, rather than attempt to try to clear a place to eat at the kitchen table, plops down on the floor.

It’s almost funny how easily Tim bought the lie that Dick fed him about having someone at the door. Nobody has visited his apartment for… a while, honestly. At least a month, but maybe more. He’s just been busy, is all. There’s his day job at the gymnastics center while also managing the Titans, liaising between the Bats and the Titans, pitching in on a few of his old friends’ projects…. It’s been a lot.

Work has steadily crept into every facet of his life. Dick used to enjoy unwinding at the end of the day by watching a show on Netflix or maybe texting his friends, but they just don’t hold the same spark as they used to. Now, if he tries to watch television, he’s just a blob laying on a couch and staring at a bright screen. It just isn’t interesting anymore.

Come to think of it, nothing is that interesting to him anymore. Everything has turned kind of gray and soggy like the old scraps of food sitting in the pile of dirty dishes in his kitchen sink. Over the past month, the general state of his apartment has fallen from “not great” to solidly “gross”. If Alfred saw the pile of dirty laundry taking over the corner of Dick’s bedroom, he’d probably cry. Dick would love to clean everything and live somewhere habitable again, but every time he thinks about cleaning up, he gets so overwhelmed by the mess that he ends up panicking and leaving the room.

Staring at the wall, Dick chews his pasta contemplatively. He desperately needs to go grocery shopping since he’s almost out of food, but maybe he can survive on takeout for a few days. The frozen pasta in his freezer is okay, but it doesn’t really taste like anyone. Dick forces himself to eat half of it before he tosses the dirty spoon in the sink and shoves the plastic tray onto the overflowing garbage can.

Since he’s done eating, maybe he should get some work done. He has a few hours to kill before it’s dark enough to go investigate the warehouse that Tim talked about. Plopping down on the couch, Dick opens his laptop and starts sifting through the intel that Tim sent him.

* * *

Looking around the warehouse is easy, until it isn’t.

Dick slips in through a window and prowls around until he finds an office with copies of various shipping manifests. They’re obviously smuggling something-- “thirty thousand red glass jars” wouldn’t fit in a single shipping container, plus it’s too specific to be just an ordinary item. He takes photos of the manifests before quietly exiting the office to go poke around in the rest of the warehouse.

Of course, that’s when things start going sideways.

Despite his years of Bat training, several well-muscled people who are far too heavily armed to be ordinary security guards manage to encircle him. Normally, they wouldn’t be a problem. Tonight, however, something about Dick is off. His reflexes, perhaps, or maybe it’s the slight fuzziness in his head. Regardless of the cause, the end effect is the same: a knife lodged in his gut.

Dick flings himself out of a window on the second floor as the guards rush after him. He manages to swing himself over the rooftop of the adjacent warehouse, but not without jostling the knife. His vision goes red and Dick staggers, one hand instinctively going to his side. Falling to his knees, Dick takes a moment to press his forehead against the cool concrete of the roof. As an added benefit, the lip of the roof just barely manages to shield him as the familiar _pop pop pop_ of gunfire rings through the air. Oh, the guards must have fetched semiautomatics.

Pain pulses through his body in lazy waves. Despite the sound of bullets hitting the concrete behind him, Dick squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe. All he has to do is stand up. One little action. He just needs to stand up, get back to his apartment, and then he can lay down.

Dick is so _tired_. Climbing back onto his feet is one of the hardest things he’s ever done. He forces himself to take one step, then another, and then he’s running across the rooftops as he flees the warehouse. His side throbs with every step he takes, but if he slows down, then he’s likely to lay down on the rooftop and stay there until morning. That is, if he doesn’t bleed out first.

Finally, Dick reaches his apartment building. He pries open his window, leaving bloody handprints on the glass that he clumsily wipes away with his elbow before tumbling inside. Dick hits the floor and rolls to distribute the impact, but it still jars the knife in his side. He takes a moment to stare up at the ceiling and breathe.

At least he was able to get the information that Tim needed. He’d hate to return empty-handed. Still, he isn’t done yet. For the second time that night, Dick drags himself up to his feet and trudges into the bathroom.

His hands are clumsy with fatigue and shake slightly as he peels off the top half of his Nightwing uniform, tossing the bloodied mess into the tub. Dick pulls out his medical kit from below the sink and sets it on the counter before grabbing what he needs: disinfectant, needles, thread, gauze, and bandages. He grips the edge of the bathroom counter and takes a deep breath, steeling himself. The knife needs to come out. He’s weak and tired and he just wants to collapse into bed, but he needs to be strong enough for this.

Dick breathes in, breathes out, and pulls out the knife. It’s almost a relief to remove it, even as blood starts weeping out of the wound. Pulling out the disinfectant, Dick gets to work. The process of stitching himself up is a familiar one. He grits his teeth at the sharp sting of the disinfectant and the pain of the needle, but he pushes through it. Dick is better than this. Pain is such a small thing; he can’t let it overwhelm him.

By the time that he finishes bandaging his side, his eyelids are drooping. He barely has enough energy to wash the blood off his hands and turn off the bathroom light before his legs nearly buckle and he sits heavily on the floor.

Every bone in his body aches with a numb, foggy sort of fatigue. Moving onto his bed seems impossible; he might as well try to move a mountain. Dick stares at his hands for a moment before he clumsily pries off his boots and drops them on the floor. He snags one of the towels off the towel rack and drapes it over himself like an impromptu blanket before, finally, he lowers himself onto the floor.

With the bottom half of his suit on, the faint chill of the tiles of the bathroom floor feels miles away. The rug is a little scratchy, but that doesn’t stop Dick from collapsing bonelessly onto it. His side still aches fiercely, but that doesn't stop Dick from plunging into a deep, heavy sleep.

* * *

The sound of his phone ringing cuts through Dick’s hazy sleep. He opens his eyes and finds himself laying on the bathroom floor with his feet sticking out into the hallway. Overnight, the pain in his side transformed into a deep, uncomfortable burn. Maybe if Dick had the motivation to move, he could. However, all of his limbs feel like lead. Dick twitches his fingers but the rest of his body refuses to move as the desire to get up slips between his fingers like water.

His phone stops ringing and he sighs. There’s a moment of peace, and then it starts ringing again. Dick closes his eyes and resists the urge to cry over something as stupid as a phone ringing.

Time passes in fits and spurts measured by the periodic ringing and silence of his phone. He tries to summon the will to move, but he can’t manage to pry himself off the floor. At some point, he might have drifted off to sleep because when he opens his eyes again, it’s to the sound of voices arguing outside his apartment. Dick blinks drowsily, and then a key scrapes in a lock and the front door of his apartment squeaks as it opens.

Well, at least they have a key. Whoever just entered his apartment probably isn’t here to murder him, which is a reassuring thought. The situation doesn’t seem urgent enough for him to go check on it. Surely it’s okay if he just lies here, right? It’s not like he can move anyways.

He doesn’t hear any footsteps before a familiar voice quietly breathes, “Oh, shit.” Then, louder, she adds, “Tim, over here!”

The light in the bathroom flicks on and Dick groans, bringing up one arm to shield his eyes. Someone kneels next to him and puts their fingers on his neck, presumably to check his pulse. “Fuck, man. We thought you were dead in a ditch,” Steph’s voice says. “Anything we need to know about? Were you drugged with anything that you can remember, any poisons…?”

Dick moves his arm off his eyes and blinks at the harsh light. “No,” he rasps. “Just stabbed.”

“Do you think the knife was coated with anything?”

“Nah. They weren’t high level enough to deal in any of that.”

Tim pokes his head into the bathroom. His hair is tied back into a messy bun and his fingers tighten on the doorframe when he sees Dick even as his face remains carefully neutral. “Then why are you lying on the floor?”

Dick’s eyes burn. “I got tired,” he jokes, but it sounds flat even to him.

The calculating look in Tim’s eyes is eerily reminiscent of Bruce. There’s a long pause where Tim watches him, head tilted slightly, before he says, “Go change out of your Nightwing suit and into some real clothes.”

“Why?” Dick asks, frowning.

“You’ll see,” Tim replies cryptically. “Need help standing up?”

He shakes his head. “Nope, I’m good.”

It takes more effort than Dick would like to admit to sit up. His vision swims for a moment when he stands up and he clutches the kitchen counter to maintain his balance. Tim’s hands shoot out towards him as if to steady him, but he retracts them as soon as he sees that Dick is capable of standing up on his own. Dick brushes past Tim and trudges into his bedroom. He strips off the rest of his Nightwing uniform and starts hunting for clothes.

There’s a pair of old sweatpants buried in his dresser that seem okay and he finds a passably clean t-shirt tossed onto a chair. Dick pulls them on before shrugging on an oversized pale blue sweatshirt. In a stroke of luck, he even finds a pair of clean fuzzy socks shoved into the far corner of his dresser. They have a hole in one toe, but Dick puts them on anyways. He grabs his phone, which is laying on top of the pile of dirty clothes on his bed, before plodding out of his room.

Steph finishes shoving his laptop into a bag and straightens up as Dick walks into the room. “Hey. Tim’s just grabbing some stuff from the bathroom.”

As if on cue, Tim pops out and slings a backpack-- hey, isn’t that Dick’s bag?-- over his shoulder. “All right, I think I go everything. Dick, are you ready to go?”

Dick blinks. “Ready to go where?”

“Back to the manor,” Tim replies as if it were obvious.

Frowning, Dick almost crosses his arms but the motion pulls a his side so he settles for shoving them into the pocket of his sweatshirt instead. “The manor? Why?”

Tim gives him a look before his face softens. “Listen, Dick, I think you need help. Bruce will be able to help you more than either of us could.”

Dick scowls. “I’m doing fine on my own. Bruce can mind his own business.”

“You’re obviously struggling. Listen, you don’t have to stay for that long. Just come back and let Alfred feed you for a few days. Okay?”

Dick closes his eyes. He’s so fucking tired. If he had a choice, he’d be asleep right now instead of having this conversation. However, the memory of Alfred’s cooking makes his stomach rumble. At the end of the day, Dick is a weak man, so he gives in. “Fine,” he says quietly, avoiding Tim’s gaze. “Who’s driving?”

They end up herding him into the back seat of the car. Steph tosses a blanket at him before hopping into the passenger’s seat. Tim turns the key in the ignition and the car’s engine purrs to life. Dick lets his head rest against the window and watches absently as Blüdhaven’s familiar scenery races past.

Steph leans over the center console to whisper something to Tim, but Dick’s eyes are already closing. Before he knows it, he’s asleep.

* * *

Something soft ensconces Dick’s entire body like he’s lying on a cloud. He tries to roll over and bury his face in his pillow, but a sharp pain lances through his side as soon as he tries. Groaning, Dick rolls back onto his back.

“Are you all right, sport?” Bruce asks.

Dick opens his eyes and finds Bruce sitting in an armchair pulled up next to his bed. Oh-- he’s in his bed at Wayne Manor. “I’m fine,” he mumbles, looking out the window instead of at Bruce. It’s bright and sunny outside and the wind gently stirs the curtains next to the open window.

Bruce sets his book down on the nightstand and leans forward, fixing Dick with his annoyingly observant gaze. “How are you feeling? You gave Steph and Tim a bit of a scare when you didn’t answer your phone.”

“I feel fine,” he grits out, fingers tangling in his blankets. “You didn’t need to send them over to check on me.”

Humming, Bruce stares down at his hands. This sort of silence is familiar, so Dick stays quiet as Bruce searches for words. At last, Bruce starts to speak. “I believe an apology is in order.”

An apology? Dick frowns.

“It seems that I’ve been too absorbed in my projects to the point of neglecting my other responsibilities,” Bruce continues.

Dick stares up at the ceiling. “I can handle myself. I’ve been doing it just fine.”

“Dick, sweetheart,” he says gently, so gently, and Dick squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to look at Bruce. “I’m all too familiar with what depression looks like. It’s okay if you’re struggling. I just want to help you.”

Tears prick at Dick’s eyes and he takes a ragged breath. “I just-- I’m supposed to be able to _handle_ it, but I can’t even do that. I’ve been trying, but I _failed_.” His voice cracks. “I’m so tired, Dad.”

Face softening, Bruce takes a seat on the edge of Dick’s bed. The mattress dips under his weight as he leans forward to gently smooth some of Dick’s hair out of his face. “You didn’t fail. Think of it as operating under difficult parameters.”

Despite the tears in his eyes, Dick can’t help but laugh. “Everything is a mission to you, huh?”

“Actually, Dinah taught me that one.”

“Oh.” Dick pauses and takes stock of Bruce, the lines on his face and the concern in his eyes. “I guess therapy is going well, then?”

Bruce shrugs. “It’s helping. Speaking of, when was the last time that you went to go see Dinah?” he asks softly.

Dick’s grip on his blankets tightens and he avoids Bruce’s eyes. His face feels hot as he mumbles, “A while. I kept meaning to schedule another appointment, but then things kept coming up and I just….”

“Forgot?” Bruce supplies. “That’s okay. Actually, I have an idea, if you’d like to hear it.”

“What is it?” he asks suspiciously.

“It sounds like you’ve been having trouble juggling your work life and personal life. If you’d like, you can stay at the manor for a while and we can help you get things back under control.” When Dick opens his mouth to protest, Bruce quickly adds. “I know that you could do it by yourself, but if you have fewer things on your plate, then you’ll be able to focus more on getting better. Depression is caused by a chemical imbalance in your brain; it’s not something that you can just power through.”

Much to his dismay, Dick feels tears threaten to roll down his cheeks. He slowly, carefully sits up and rubs at his eyes. Unfortunately, it doesn’t do much to keep him from crying. Bruce reaches out, hesitantly at first, to wrap Dick in a hug. When Dick leans into him, Bruce’s hands grow more certain as he gently reels Dick in to cry into his shoulder. He rubs Dick’s back as he cries deep, gut-wrenching sobs from months of feeling helpless, of slowly drowning in his own mind.

“It’s going to be okay,” Bruce murmurs into Dick’s hair. “You’re going to be all right. I’ve got you.”

Eventually, Dick’s tears die down into sniffles and he pulls back, wiping at his face with his sleeve. Bruce watches him for a moment before suggesting, “You know, I think Alfred has lunch ready downstairs. Why don’t you come eat with us?”

Dick takes a deep breath before nodding. “Okay,” he whispers.

Bruce stands up and presses a kiss to Dick’s forehead. “They’ll be glad to see you. Everyone has missed you these past few months, bud.”

Dick stands up, ignoring how his side protests at the movement. His father smiles at them as they walk out of his room and gently squeezes Dick’s shoulder. Even at the top of the stairs, he can easily hear Damian’s voice echoing through the halls and the bright, clear sound of Cass’s laughter.

Something in his heart resonates with the noise. At last, he’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!! This chapter is dedicated to the "t" key on my keyboard because it keeps falling off. 
> 
> For more content, come check out my DC tumblr, [batfam-chaos](https://batfam-chaos.tumblr.com/)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CWs:** more depictions of depression

“Father says that you’re injured,” Damian says from the doorway to the den. One of his hands rests on Titus’s back; the already gigantic dog looks even bigger when he stands next to Damian.

Dick looks up from his laptop and minimizes the reports pulled up on his screen. Technically, he’s supposed to be cutting back on his workload, but he can’t help it. There are reports to do, intel to gather, missions to assign. Bruce gives him a look whenever he finds Dick working but he hasn’t tried to physically keep Dick from his work yet, which he considers a victory. “Hi, little D, Titus.”

Damian tilts his head slightly, waiting for an answer. The tiny movement makes him look like a miniature Bruce, right down to the little wrinkle that appears in his brow when he frowns. Stifling a smile, Dick replies, “Yeah, I’m injured. I took a knife to the side the other day remember?”

Quietly padding into the den, Damian halts a few feet away from Dick. “He also said that your mind is injured.”

Ah, so it’s going to be _that_ kind of conversation. Dick lets a smile slide onto his face and pats the seat next to him. “In a way, yes. Here, sit down and I can tell you about it.”

Damian climbs onto the couch and twists to face Dick, waiting. He doesn’t quite meet Dick’s eyes and instead stares just below his throat as if searching for his heartbeat. Unbothered, Dick takes a moment to weigh his words before saying, “I have a chemical imbalance in my brain.”

“And this chemical imbalance can’t be fixed?” The wrinkle in Damian’s brow deepens slightly as his eyes narrow.

“It can be, but it’s… difficult. There are medications for it, but they have all sorts of side effects since they mess with your brain chemistry.”

Damian nods and looks down at his feet. His legs are too short for his feet to touch the floor so instead, they dangle off the edge of the couch. Sometimes, Dick forgets just how small Damian is. He’s like a piece of string that was left in the League’s pocket for so long that all of its tangles were compressed into a tiny yet formidable knot. Bruce is working on untangling Damian’s time with the League and Damian has been going to therapy with Dinah, but ten years will take a while to sort through.

“And you are on these medications?” he asks brusquely.

Dick nods. “I’ve been on them since I was a teenager, but sometimes these things come in waves, you know? So during low tide, I was fine. It was low tide for a while, but…” he swallows. “It’s high tide now, I guess.”

Damian’s sharp gaze meets Dick’s once more. “This is a metaphor for depression?”

“Right. Did Bruce explain depression to you?” The League definitely wouldn’t make Dick’s list of the top five places with the best mental health awareness.

A sharp nod, and Damian looks away again. “He did. Depression involves low levels of dopamine, which is responsible for creating positive feelings and motivation; norepinephrine, which acts as a neural messenger; and serotonin, which regulates moods.”

“That’s right, good job,” Dick says, smiling. Damian ducks his head, but the tips of his ears flush at the praise.

One of Damian’s hands reaches for Titus, stroking his head. “Father also said-- he said that you’re going to stay at the manor for a while because your decreased levels of neurotransmitters make it difficult for you to function normally without the assistance of others.”

“Yeah, he wants me to stay here for a while,” Dick confirms, pulling his legs up onto the couch as he leans into the cushions.

For a moment, Damian pets Titus and frowns intently as he searches for words. Still not meeting Dick’s gaze, he finally says, “It is of the utmost importance that you take care of yourself. You must prioritize your well-being. Any other alternatives are unacceptable. Understand?”

It takes a second for Dick to unravel the meaning of his words, but then he smiles. His hear twists in his chest at the determined slant of Damian’s mouth; leave it to him to frame self-care as an order. “Gotcha, I understand.”

Damian hesitates before nodding as if he didn’t expect Dick to agree with him. “Good. I’m glad that you understand the importance of the situation.”

He sounds so much like a little Bruce that Dick almost wants to laugh. “Hey, Damian?”

“Yes?” Now Damian turns his head to look at Dick, hands still resting on Titus’s head. He hides it well, but he almost looks unsure as he discreetly searches Dick’s face for any signs of disapproval.

“I love you, little D.”

Damian’s eyes widen minutely and he pauses before lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders. “I love you too, Richard,” he declares as if he was announcing it to a room full of people instead of just to Dick. Briefly hesitating, Damian then adds in a quieter voice, “Father says that physical contact releases dopamine and oxytocin and calms cardiovascular stress. Would you like a hug?”

This time, Dick can’t keep himself from smiling. “I’d love a hug.”

Damian crawls closer to Dick on the sofa before carefully wrapping his arms around his waist, mindful of his still-healing wound. Dick pulls Damian closer, tucking his head under Dick’s chin. It takes surprisingly little time for Damian to relax into the hug, letting his forehead drop so it presses against Dick’s neck. He’s small and warm like a little sun.

After a few seconds pass, Damian pulls back and sits down on the couch again. “I should leave you to relax.”

Dick shrugs. “You can stay if you want, I really don’t mind.”

Damian fixes Dick with a piercing look. “Hmph. You’re not supposed to be overworking yourself.”

“I’m not!” he defends, still smiling.

Rising smoothly to his feet, Damian raises one eyebrow at him. “Don’t overwork yourself,” he repeats firmly.

“I won’t, promise,” Dick replies, leaning back into the couch.

Titus stands up and obediently follows Damian over to the doorway. “I will see you later, when Alfred makes his afternoon cookies,” he says before disappearing into the hallway.

Dick waits until he’s decided that Damian truly left before he pulls out his laptop again. As he reopens his reports, his heart feels a little lighter than it did earlier that morning.

* * *

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Dick knocks on Steph’s doorframe. The sound of some pop song he doesn’t recognize blares on the speakers in the guest room that has long since been converted into Steph’s room.

“Come in!” Steph calls.

Dick steps inside and finds Steph sitting in the middle of the floor with a small mountain of nail polish bottles spread in a half-circle around her. She looks up at him and waves, clicking something on her computer. The loud music immediately lowers to a volume more conducive to conversation. “Hey, Dickie. What’s up?”

Shifting his weight, Dick offers her a smile. “I just wanted to say thanks for coming to check on me yesterday. I didn’t mean to make you go out of your way or anything.”

For a moment, Steph narrows her eyes at him before she nods, evidently having made some decision. “Get your butt over here and close the door behind you,” she orders.

Dick hesitates before shutting the door and shuffling closer to Steph. “I don’t want to waste your time or anything,” he hedges, but Steph just rolls her eyes.

“Oh my god, you’re worse than Tim. Come pick a color, we’re gonna paint your nails.”

Judging by the look on her face, he can’t weasel his way out of his one. Oh, well. He crouches next to the heap of nail polish before selecting a bottle and handing it to Steph. She peers at it before nodding, pleased. “ _Do You Lilac It?_ Good choice. All right, let me see your hands.”

Dick sits cross-legged and holds out his hands to her. Steph sets down some paper towels under his hand, presumably to catch any stray flecks of polish, before shaking the bottle. “So, let me guess. You’re here out of some angsty misplaced guilt or something?”

“I wouldn’t say misplaced guilt,” Dick replies evenly, forcing a lighthearted smile onto his face.

Glancing up a him, Steph fixes him with a look before she starts painting his first nail. “Uh huh. You know, I’ve been hanging around you guys for, what, a few years now?”

“Something like that. Three years now, I think?”

She nods. “That sounds about right. But you know, I’m well aware of how this family works.”

Dick raises an eyebrow. “And how does it work?” he asks, intrigued.

“Well, for starters.…” Steph swipes a streak of polish onto another nail. “Bruce deals with his emotions by dressing up in a leather fursuit and punching people.”

It’s only thanks to Dick’s ironclad self-control that he doesn’t laugh hard enough to move his hand as Steph concentrates on painting the edges of his nail. “I mean, yeah. In his defense, therapy has been helping a lot.”

Steph makes a noise of agreement. “Yeah, but his first instinct is still to tackle his problems head on without asking for help. It runs in the family, I think.”

“Is this about yesterday? Because seriously, I didn’t mean to freak you out. I didn’t want you guys to drive up, what, two hours to Blüdhaven and another two hours back just because I was too lazy to get up and answer the phone.”

“Uh huh,” she says, evidently unimpressed. “What else were we gonna do, let you rot in a ditch somewhere?”

“I was fine,” Dick protests.

Steph looks up at him, eyes blazing. “Were you?”

He opens his mouth and then closes it like a fish out of water as he searches for an answer. “Yes, I was.” Even to him, his answer falls flat.

She snorts and examines her work so far before nodding to herself. Reaching over to grab a handful of what looks like caramel-coated popcorn in the bowl by her computer, Steph chews before adding, “By the way, no typing on your computer until these dry or else it’ll crinkle and you’ll get polish all over your computer.”

“You’re evil,” Dick remarks, but Steph just grins and pops another handful of caramel corn into her mouth.

“Evil and armed with nail polish,” she retorts as she picks up the nail polish brush again.

Dick lets out a huff of laughter. “But really, it wasn’t that bad. Everyone is acting like I’m drowning, or something, but I’m really not. Sure, maybe I’m a little depressed and I guess it snuck up on me, but….” The words stick in his throat and he pauses, watching Steph work her magic. “I didn’t need everyone intervening, you know?”

Steph hums and starts painting the next nail. “You may think that you’re excellent at being evasive and lying to yourself, but I will remind you that I’m best friends with Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, the king of refusing to ask for help. Sometimes people need to have help forced on them regardless of how much they threaten to stab you.”

He falls silent, staring down at his hands.

“Caramel corn?” Steph offers, holding up a piece. Dick opens his mouth and lets her toss it into his mouth.

“Thanks.”

She grins. “No problem. You’re almost as good at catching those as Tim is.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, apparently his friends like making a game out of it. One time, he nearly sprained his ankle once trying to catch a gummy bear. It was pretty funny.”

Dick snorts. “That sounds like Tim.”

“What, getting extremely intense about simple games and diving headfirst into everything he does because he’s convinced that he needs to be the best and there’s no room for error?” she replies casually. “I think that’s a family trait, actually.”

He wants to rebut her, but with what evidence? Instead, he chuckles, shaking his head. “Ouch.”

“I’d apologize, but it’s true.” Steph finishes painting his last nail. Taking his hands, she tilts them back and forth as she examines her handiwork before nodding. “Okay, I think you’re done.”

Dick holds up his nails, admiring them. There’s a faint sparkle in the lilac polish that he didn’t notice before. “They look nice. Thanks, Steph. You’re the best.”

Grinning, Steph tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Who, me? I’m just your friendly neighborhood nail polish queen.”

“You definitely are. But hey, I should get going. I’ve monopolized enough of your time as it is.”

“You know, I have a bowl full of caramel popcorn and bunch of videos about cake decorating fails,” she says casually. “You’re welcome to chill here if you want company.”

Dick smiles at her, but it’s slightly strained. “Thanks, but I should really go.”

“All right, suit yourself.” Steph shrugs and flops down onto her stomach in front of her computer. “You know where to find me if you need me.”

“In our kitchen, raiding our snacks?”

She rolls her eyes, but bursts into laughter as Dick tries to open the door without smudging his nails. Finally, he gives in and uses his foot to open it.

“Bye, Dick,” she says, waving at him with a little wiggle of her fingers.

Against his wishes, a faint smile creeps onto his face. “Bye, Steph.” He nudges the door closed behind himself, and then he’s alone in the dark hallway.

* * *

Dick frowns at his laptop. The report that the Titans want to send to the Justice League needs to be fleshed out more if they want anyone not on the team to be able to understand it. He barely glances up when Jason saunters into the den and plops down onto the other couch. Why is there barely any background information included in this report? They need to fix it before they can send it to the JLA.

The TV turns on and Jason starts flipping through movies on Netflix. Dick stubbornly stares at his laptop for another minute, trying to tune out the sound of each preview, before he finally gives in and looks over at Jason. “Do you mind? The TV is making it hard to work on these reports.”

Jason raises an eyebrow at him. “You working on reports is making it hard to watch TV. Aren’t you supposed to have a lighter workload right now?”

Instead of answering the question, Dick shrugs and goes back to staring at his computer. However, Jason doesn’t relent. “Why don’t you watch something with me? I’ll even let you choose the movie.”

Lifting his head, Dick fixes him with an even stare. If Jason hadn’t lived in the same household as Bruce Wayne for years, he might have been intimidated. Unfortunately for Dick, Jason is completely unfazed. He holds up the remote, waving it in the air. “C’mon, I know you want to.”

Finally, Dick sighs and takes the remote from Jason. He stares at the list of movies and picks one at random.

“Spiderman: Into the Spider-verse,” Jason says, nodding appreciatively. “Nice.”

Dick tosses the remote back to him and Jason catches it with one hand. “It was either that or the 2005 version of Pride and Prejudice.”

“Pride and Prejudice is good no matter how many times you watch it.” Jason nods sagely and kicks his feet up onto the couch. “Now, all you need to do is put your laptop away. I know you know how to watch a movie, Dickiebird.”

Dick stares mournfully at his laptop before closing it and setting it on the coffee table. “There, happy?”

“Ecstatic.” Jason flashes him a bright smile.

For a few minutes, Dick settles back into the couch and watches the movie’s bright animation flash across the screen. Out of the corner of his eye, he can just barely see Jason’s head turned enough to keep an eye on him. Does Jason think that he needs babysitting, or is he waiting to say something? Judging by the way that he clenches and unclenches his jaw, it’s most likely the latter.

His hypothesis is proved correct when Jason twists around, propping himself up on the couch’s armrest. In the partial darkness, the streak of white in his curly hair practically glows like a beacon. “Hey. I know I’m not exactly a paragon of mental health, but you know that you can come talk to me if you’re having trouble, right?”

“Yeah, of course.” Dick offers Jason a bright smile that strains his mouth enough to make it ache.

Jason’s mouth falls into a harsh, disappointed line. “If you’re going to lie to my face, you could at least have the decency to do it well.”

Glancing away, Dick stares at the television screen as something like shame prickles in his chest. “Sorry,” he says, and means it.

“I’m not just some random person who’s never been depressed in their life. I’m not about to tell you to just _be happier_ or whatever random bullshit life advice someone found on their facebook feed,” Jason says quietly. “I’ve been there, Dick. I know what it’s like.”

“I know,” Dick replies in an equally hushed tone. “I saw.” It’s as close as he’ll get to acknowledging what Jason was like after the Lazarus Pit, all twisted up in confusion and bone-deep rage. What was almost worse was what came after, the oddly subdued listlessness and quiet grief. Jason Todd-Wayne was born to wear his heart on his sleeve; he’s not somebody meant to be quiet.

Silence permeates the room, interrupted only by the noise of the movie playing in the background. “Did therapy help?” Dick asks after a long pause.

Jason looks over at him and shrugs. “I mean, you have to do a lot of the work yourself, but yeah. Bruce helped me set up more appointments with Dinah. It’s been… really helpful, actually.”

“Oh. That’s good.” Dick nods absently and stares down at his hands.

“You know, if you ask Bruce to set up some appointments with Dinah, he’ll do it. He likes feeling helpful.”

Dick snorts quietly. “I’m surprised that he hasn’t done it already.”

Smirking, Jason leans back into the couch cushions. “Oh, he’s definitely talked about it with her. He’s probably asked her to clear part of her schedule but held off on scheduling anything until you talked to one of them about it first.”

“This family, I swear.” Shaking his head, Dick suppresses his smile.

“You know, I’m serious about you coming to talk to me if you need help,” Jason says, meeting his gaze evenly. “I know how ridiculous our family is. If you ever need someone to complain to, I’m here.”

Dick raises an eyebrow. “It almost sounds like you’re trying to give me life advice, Little Wing.”

“Life advice? Who do you take me for, someone who has their shit together?” Jason shoots back. “If you need to bitch about Bruce, you know where to find me.”

Dick smiles at his not-so-little brother. When did he start growing up? Maybe he really has been too distant from the manor if he’s missing out on things like this. Before he knows it, Damian is going to be an awkward, angsty teenager instead of a little ten year old. “Thanks, Jay.”

Jason grins crookedly. “Any time.”

The rest of the movie passes in relative silence, punctuated only by Jason’s commentary on the movie. Dick forgot how much he likes watching movies with him; there’s something to be said for the way that hearing other people’s opinions almost lets him see the movie through their eyes.

By the time that the end credits roll across the screen, Dick feels almost relaxed. Jason stands up and stretches, stifling a massive yawn. “Well, it’s been fun, but I should get going. Havoc to wreak, Bruces to scare. You know the drill. I think you’ve taken a long enough break anyways.”

Dick frowns at Jason. “...Did you come in here exclusively to make me take a break? Did you _plan_ this?”

Ignoring the question, Jason grins brightly at him. “Gotta go, bye!” With that, he hurries out of the room, his laughter echoing down the halls.

* * *

“Ah, Master Dick, here you are. Would you mind lending me a hand and dicing these carrots for me?”

“Sure, I don’t mind.” Dick shrugs and walks over to the kitchen island as Alfred moves over, letting him take over the cutting board. Normally, Alfred is loath to let anyone interfere with his work in the kitchen, so Dick can only assume that he wants to talk to him about something.

Surely enough, after Dick is halfway through chopping up one carrot, Alfred speaks. “You know, it’s a pleasure to see your face around the manor again. I do believe that Master Bruce has missed you.” (Translation: Alfred also missed him, but is too British to directly say so.)

“It’s good to be back,” Dick says, surprising himself with the honesty of his own words.

“How is your side treating you? I understand that you sustained a rather nasty stab wound.”

Dick shrugs. “It’s all right. It hasn’t been bothering me too much.”

Alfred hums. “You’ll find that the ibuprofen is in its usual spot.”

Taking the unsubtle hint, Dick walks over to the cabinets and grabs the bottle of ibuprofen. There must be painkillers in every room of the manor just so Alfred can coax them all into occasionally taking medication for their wounds. Dick takes two pills and swallows them dry before putting the bottle back.

Alfred nods, satisfied, and goes back to stirring the pot on the stove as Dick returns to the cutting board. Its contents are a mystery, but it smells amazing. “Tell me, during your training, did you learn how doors work?”

Pausing, Dick frowns in confusion. “Doors? I mean, isn’t it obvious?”

“One would think so, and yet you seem to have forgotten how to use them,” Alfred remarks without looking up from the stove. “The manor does has several fully functional doors, as you might recall.”

Dick winces. “Ouch. I guess I deserved that one, huh.”

“Only a little, sir.”

He dices another carrot before Alfred adds, “Regardless of how old you are, the manor is your home too. Master Bruce and I will always be here to help you.”

Smiling ruefully, Dick stares down at the cutting board. “I’m not a kid anymore, Alfie,” he says quietly. “You and Bruce can’t run in and solve all of my problems.”

“Perhaps not, but we can provide you with the tools you need to tackle them. Failing that, we will be there for you to fall back on when you need help. We will always be here for you, Master Dick. No matter what, we will never stop loving you.”

Dick’s throat closes and he finds himself blinking tears from his eyes. “I know,” he whispers.

A mug of tea appears next to him and Alfred’s hand lands lightly on his shoulder. “I believe some tea is in order.”

“Thanks, Alfred,” he says quietly.

“Of course, my boy,” Alfred replies smoothly. He presses a kiss to Dick’s forehead before retreating to the stove, conveniently turning his back to give Dick space to breathe through the tears trickling down his face.

The mug of tea is warm when he curls his hands around it. It tastes like the same blend that Alfred gave him after school back when he was a freshly traumatized child who was new to the manor. Dick can’t keep himself from smiling as he inhales the steam. It smells like afternoons spent sliding down the banister, like chattering at Bruce as he sat in front of the Batcomputer, like hovering at Alfred’s elbow as he patiently showed him how to make cookies. It smells like home.

* * *

Dick is in the middle of watching a video on youtube when Duke walks into the study. Seeing Dick, Duke pauses. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize that there was someone in here.”

With one hand, Dick gestures for him to come in. “You’re fine, don’t worry. There’s room for more than one person in here. With the size of this family, it’s kind of impossible to avoid running into people.”

Duke lets out a quiet laugh and pulls out his earbuds. “Yeah, you’re right about that. Things do get kind of wild around here.”

“You’ve been around here for, what, four months now?”

“Seven, actually.”

Dick doesn’t let his surprise show on his face. Wow, he’s really out of touch nowadays, huh. “Has anyone mentioned the annual Bruce-off yet?”

Raising his eyebrows, Duke takes a seat on the other sofa. “No?”

“Well, it varies from year to year. It started off back when it was just Jason and I doing Bruce impressions. At some point, we started changing it up so the format of the competition is different every year. We did cakes that looked like his face, but Jason won that year. I think Steph won the year that we did the ten minute Bruce cosplay challenge. She turned a garbage bag into a cape.” He smiles as he recalls the exasperated yet amused look on Bruce’s face when Steph unveiled her Batman cosplay. That was a good year.

Duke grins. “I can’t say that I’m surprised. The whole family dresses up as bats and punches things, so we’re bound to be weird.”

“You have a point there.”

“Have you picked the theme for this year yet?”

Dick shrugs. “Not yet, but you’ll probably get to choose it since you’re the newest. Damian chose last year and made us all finger paint Bruce’s face. It was pretty fun.”

Duke’s face lights up. “Oh, sweet. I’ll have to start coming up with ideas.”

“I’m sure whichever one you decide on will be great,” Dick says, smiling encouragingly.

“Aw, thanks.” Shifting his weight, Duke looks down at his hands before glancing back over at Dick. “Bruce mentioned the other day that you came home because you’re having a hard time with things. I don’t want to pry or anything because I know it’s none of my business, but… if you ever need help with anything, or if there’s anything I can do, let me know. I don’t know how much I’ll be able to actually do, but Bruce has helped me a lot and I’d like to return the favor if I can.”

Momentarily stunned, Dick blinks at his newest younger brother before regaining his footing. “That’s a generous offer, but you know that you don’t have to do that, right?”

Duke shrugs. “Maybe, but I guess I’m kind of part of the family now. I want to help out, you know?”

“You don’t have to justify your place in the family by doing favors for us,” Dick points out gently. “We’re just happy that you’re here with us.”

“I guess.” Fiddling with his earbuds, Duke is startled out of his thoughts when his phone starts blasting what sounds like a song from Shrek. “Oh, that’s Tim. He’s supposed to take me to the skate park and teach me how to do a kickflip.”

Dick smiles. “Have fun. Remember to wear a helmet.”

“Wise words coming from the man who runs around dressed up as a bird,” Duke replies as he stands up. “All right, I’m gonna head out. I’ll see you around, Dick.” With one last smile, Duke jogs out of the den, leaving Dick alone with his thoughts.

Maybe Dick should start heeding his own advice.

* * *

Dick cautiously approaches Bruce’s desk in the study. It looks like Bruce is lost in thought as he pores over an assortment of papers scattered over his desk, but he’s likely been aware of Dick’s presence since he entered the room. “Hey, B. Is now a good time to talk?”

Looking up from his work, Bruce smiles. “Sure, sport. What did you want to talk about?” He slides his wire-rimmed reading glasses off his face and sets them on the desk.

“I think it would be a good idea if I went back to therapy.”

Bruce nods seriously, but his eyes crinkle at the corners. “All right. Do you want me to help you set that up?”

Dick nods, forcing himself to meet Bruce’s eyes as he takes a seat in the armchair across from his desk. “That would be great.”

Instead of staying seated, Bruce stands up and walks around the desk. “I’m proud of you,” he murmurs, kissing Dick’s forehead.

Not for the first time that day, Dick finds himself blinking away tears. “Thanks, Dad,” he whispers.

The smile on Bruce’s face is warm enough to rival the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chill with me on my DC blog, [batfam-chaos](https://batfam-chaos.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!! <3


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